W.D.L Diamond — Short Stories
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The home of every short story written by Westley and Deborah Langley — a mother and son who never could agree on a genre, so they wrote them all. Six doors below. Some you’ll want to leave open.
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Latest short stories
- The Silence Before the CallBeneath the undergrowth, hidden where the sun could not reach, something waited; It felt the vibrations of human footsteps through the soil, the heat of their bodies against the cooling air, the rhythm of voices it did not recognise. It had been silent for an age; and now…, it was awake…, it had…, returned to a world unprepared
- Meeting Hollywood’s Silver Screen GoddessesNext came Lena Thompson, the sultry brunette who could make a simple coffee order sound like a Shakespearean soliloquy. She was perched on a folding chair, sipping espresso while reviewing a script. “You look like you’ve never seen a film set before,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Let me show you how a real movie is made.”
- Shadows of the TheatreBut all the luxury was merely the prelude. My heartbeat was strictly for the evening’s main event: the tickets clutched tightly in my bag for the show I had been wanting to see for a year now. As it was in such high demand, they put the show on for a second year, so I had got my chance
- The Last VoicemailIn “The Last Voicemail,” Peter’s neglected home reflects his mental decline, steeped in decay and solitude. As he isolates himself, his daughter Sarah’s voicemail breaks the silence, revealing her longing for connection and concern for his well-being meanwhile Death didn’t arrive with thunder or shadow. He simply stepped inside a house that had already stopped living, and listened as a voicemail echoed through the stillness
- Rummage: The First FractureThe Bureau doors slammed shut behind them with a hollow, metallic thud. The cold March air washed over the three of them, but Vincent couldn’t tell if it was the weather… or the unease that always seemed to radiate from his daughters. The twins did not blink. They did not shift. They simply stood in the lamplight like shadows that had forgotten how to move.
- Beneath Baikunthapur: A Haunting DiscoveryThe air inside the chamber felt wrong. Arun Sen paused at the threshold, breath catching as a cold shiver slid down his spine. Baikunthapur was warm even in February — but this room felt still, heavy, touched by something that did not belong. His lantern light crawled across basalt walls and the fallen bodies of cultists. Their last shouts — “Imperium!” and “Defend the Jaba‑Sutra!” — still echoed faintly in his mind. And then he saw it. A black cloth hanging from an iron stand, stitched with a crimson hibiscus and two blades. Arun stepped closer. The cloth was cold. Grave cold.
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